Page 5 of Threads That Bind Us

“Ana’s actually not well at all. She’s recently been diagnosed with early stage cancer. She’s had surgery, but she also needs radiation therapy and the costs are incredibly high. I’ve been raising Ana on my own for a while now, and haven’t been able to get ahold of Isabelle in a few years. I’m coming to you hoping, as her father, you’d be willing to assist with the cost of the treatment.”

I withheld as many non-pertinent details as possible, but I can see Ben’s brain working. Piecing together my level of desperation, my commitment to Ana, my lack of options. He’s obviously surprised by the news, but he doesn’t seem particularly affected.

The waitress drops another glass of wine for him, and tops off my water. When she departs, he seems to have come to some sort of conclusion.

“How much are we talking?” he asks, and I’m almostrelieved. He’s considering it. Holy shit, this might have all been worth it.

“I’m still working through some insurance information, but the estimate is up to eighty thousand dollars.” I resist the urge to cringe at the number. Ben is the beneficiary of generational wealth, and is involved with some very lucrative and relatively shady shit; the amount wouldn’t go unnoticed, but it wouldn’t truly affect him.

“And what do I get in exchange?”

I should have known. I should havefuckingknown. I grip my hands together in my lap, trying to stave off the anger rising again.

“What do you mean?”

“An investment needs a return, Gwendolyn,” he responds, and I’m shocked a real human smile can look so cartoonishly sickening. “What is my return?”

“The life of your daughter?” The response comes out biting, but I can’t help it. I had thought prepubescent rage fueled my teenage hatred of Ben, but looks like thinking he was a fucking rat at eleven years old was pretty fair.

“I don’t know Morgana. She doesn’t reach out and doesn't seem to want to be a part of my life.” I barely cover my disbelieving scoff with a cough. Apologies that your child didn’t pick up the phone and call her absentee father, you bastard. “But maybeyoucan give me that return.”

Chapter 3

Gwen

Fuck absolutely everything.

Fuck Ben and his wine stained teeth, and his money, and his offer. Fuck Isabelle, and her inability to settle down when she had a child. Fuck the American healthcare system for bankrupting people when children get cancer. And most of all, fuck the cancer itself.

Ben’s willingness to write me a one-time, personal check in exchange for an open-ended agreement to be his mistress sits heavy in my stomach. Eighty thousand dollars in exchange for my conscience. After Ana’s treatment concludes, my vagina and other orifices would be beholden to him.I’ll call you whenever my wife is out of town or busy, he said. Wouldn’t want to schlep it to the city for his pay-per-lay and risk running into his flesh and fucking blood.

Separate and compartmentalized, I can deal with each individual aspect of this agreement. I knew making a deal with Ben would require some sort of extended contact with him. Infidelity is not the worst thing I’d considered doing for the money; I’ve done far worse for people I love far less. Sex work is work, and something I would have considered if starting a new careerwouldn’t take more time than I had. But it’s the fact that Ben is forcing my hand in all of this when he should do thisfor his child.

Working through my rage, I make it as far as Union Station, the MARC and Amtrak passengers huddling together against the wind, scurrying toward the terminal with its shops and gorgeous ceilings and deep-seated smell of fast food. I’m on autopilot, a lifetime of navigating busy crowds keeping me from bumping into anyone. By the time I make it out to the grand entrance of Union Station, the dome of octagon windows reflecting murky skies through their glass, I feel like sinking into the floor and disappearing forever.

I can’t go home right now. Ana’s at Gray’s until Sunday morning, and I cannot be alone with my thoughts. I think about calling Kenzie. She’d rally the good waitresses, the event managers and sommeliers, and the bartenders who best toe the line between complimentary and creepy. They’d make me laugh, tell me how to be a bad lay so he cuts the deal off early and I still get my money.

But the impending doom is sinking into my bones, and I feel like I’m living the last night of my life as I know it, and I don’t want them to witness it. They’re the closest thing I have to family other than Ana, and as pathetic as it sounds, I don’t want to explain this.

I know my answer already. There’s no question, no hesitation. For Ana, I would do much worse.

I just need to mourn.

I’m staring at the ceiling like a fucking tourist, trying to summon strength from the pretty architecture.Just give yourself one night to grieve the life you thought you could live.One night to be selfish.

I’m making my way out into the cold before I really know where I’m going, wandering aimlessly around the lamplitstreets until I stumble into NoMa. It’s a neighborhood I rarely visit, but maybe that’s a good thing. There are no memories of Ana and I here.

I pass crossroads tucked with coffee shops and tattoo parlors and restaurants, busy for a weeknight, but still so much quieter than the neighborhood around our apartment. I want the calm to be reassuring, to give me peace, but all it gives me is space to think. I try to keep walking, to rush through residential streets to get to the next busy corner quickly, but it’s not enough. My brain keeps humming the same tune.

Just like her. You’re. Just. Like. Her. Sure you have your reasons, and maybe you think they’re better than hers were, but what do you know? In the end, you’re making the same choice.

I’m about to give up and make my way to whatever Metro stop is closest when I’m halted by the sounds of whooping. Loud, frat-boy level whooping. I hear the telltale signs of a group of girls cheering before downing shots.

That sounds like an escape.

I make my way up the street and am greeted by the beautiful sight of chaos. Neon signs blending with the harsh light of street lamps. Sweaty, barely legal bodies slamming against each other. Someone in a large purple hat wandering around a corner to puke in a bush.Catalina’sis emblazoned in red neon cursive over the entrance. It’s perfect.

I show my ID to the bouncer and wade through the sea of people jumping up and down to some eighties rock song. The band is so loud my teeth rattle, and I’m indescribably relieved to be here. My bummer expression persists, and I’m not exactly going to get up and dance, but it’s nice to have the noise chase everything else away.